


State of the Art

by Marlboro_Blanc



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Artist john!, John can draw!, M/M, Naked Sherlock, Sex in cupboard, Sherlock is a life model, naked drawing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 23:15:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1322869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marlboro_Blanc/pseuds/Marlboro_Blanc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock finds John has a hidden talent that he can use to his advantage. John thinks he can handle anything, though nothing could prepare him for Sherlock being his life model. Then there is sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	State of the Art

John Watson was not a sentimental man, even as a child, with the exception of a stuffed rabbit named flopsy he never held onto anything longer then he needed it. Either something was useful to him or it was not, and if it was not then it would end up in the bin. He never held any kind of romantic attachment to anything he owned, and whatever slim need he had to keep something the army certainly beat out of him. Being in the army does that to you. It gives you a tough outer shell, a tough inner one too if you were lucky, or not so lucky, depending on how much of a human you wanted to be while holding a gun. You learn to pack light, to keep your flat to the very bare minimum an adult needs to survive, and not to attach any value to those silver spoons your great aunt Vera has had since 1932.

That is why he was always so surprised at himself when he held on to them, and his desire to never let that large brown folder and all its contents go. He should have thrown them all away long ago, or kept them in a forgotten box in his parents attic along with the rest of his past. Why he carried them all around from place to place he never really understood. It was quite unlike John to do something that was beyond any reason, he could surprise Sherlock but he never surprised himself, every movement, every action, made perfect sense to him, apart from this. 

The water colours, the charcoals, oil paintings and pastels he had done at school, they were all in there, he had held onto every single one, all dated with his name in the bottom right hand corner. Being the man he was he kept them in chronological order, giving a clear path through his brief period as an artist. Starting off haphazardly and with little effort, he had only done the subject because that is where all the pretty girls were, then he had discovered a liking, and he even had some talent. His teacher certainly agreed, teaching his class while her husband was away on a diplomatic trip to Moscow. Maybe that was why he had held onto his old art projects for so long, how could he chuck away what she had touched, marked, looked at? Walking round the Tate Modern with her, and later in the back of her old Ford, was the first time he had even known love. 

He had kept this love of art with him for the rest of his life. That love of life encased in a frame, that love of walking around a space and seeing the world in squares hanging on walls. Picasso’s use of colour and form, Vermeer and light, get him in the right mood and if you smile sweetly enough he could tell you anything you wanted to know. Sherlock would never understand, would make no attempt to even try to understand, ‘John, if I wanted to look at a picture of a tree all I have to do is look outside and oh, there are loads of them.’ He was hopeless, there was no logic to art, nothing you could put in a test tube and watch it fizz and bubble, so it held no interest to him at all. Recently there had been a set of television shows on the BBC about impressionists. It had cost Sherlock two Bunsen burners and a microscope before he learnt to keep quiet throughout the entire thing. 

It was raining when John came home from the surgery, great big blobs of the transparent liquid had filled the hood of his coat and his hair, the cold water falling down his shirt collar and along his back. His socks squelching inside his sodden shoes. Shaking his dark blonde tresses, trying to make himself feel less soaked by making Mrs Hudson’s carpet just as drenched as he was, his shoes slipping, unable to grip on the stairs as he made his way up.  
‘You are wet, is it raining outside?’. Despite the thundering sound of the rain against the windows Sherlock gave him a deductive glance and a raised eyebrow.  
‘You would know if you actually went outside.’ John responded sarcastically. 

‘Dull’

The phrase ‘spectacularly ignorant’ went round John’s mind once again as he flicked on the kettle. The weather was not Sherlock’s strong point, along with space, adult emotions, the process of not making food burn and actually vaguely edible, male adult choirs, dusting and the words to the hokey cokey. Any man who wore a coat in the middle of summer purely so he could turn the collar up was never going to be an expert in meteorology. He still got out two mugs from the cupboard, and two tea bags and two spoons, Sherlock may be an idiot but John was never cruel enough to deny him tea, he tried to ignore the intensely attractive form of Sherlock lounging on the sofa in a dressing gown. 

It was then that he saw. He had missed it at first, what with doing a highly convincing impression of a drowned rat and the need for urgent tea, urgently. Now he had settled into being home, with the kettle merrily boiling away he took more notice of what was around him. 

‘Sherlock, why are you looking at my old art projects?’ 

'Sherlock Holmes you absolute cock why have you been through my room again? How many more times do I need to say it is private?' was, of course, the clear subtext. 

The large sheets of projects done so long ago were scattered on the floor of the sitting room. Among them was some oil paintings he had done of his friends faces and a pastel of a bowl of fruit, a quick pencil sketch of a bare hand lay right next to Sherlock’s foot. The long toes kneading into the carpet only inches away from the edge on the paper, casting a small shadow on the tip of the little finger. This was very different to the times Sherlock would borrow his laptop to see what type of porn he watched. He refused to get corny and say that as art was an expression and to say it felt as if Sherlock was looking deep into his soul, that would be silly, but his cheeks still burnt for his teenage self.

‘You had talent, shame you gave it up to become cannon fodder.’

‘I was a doctor.’

The wave of a hand gave a clear indication that his response was completely irrelevant. 

He relaxed back on the sofa, fingers wrapped underneath his chin. 

‘For god’s sake man stop looking at the bulge, yes there is a bulge in his pyjamas, yes you would give your right arm to wrap your mouth over said bulge. but if you look at it then I shall make you throw out all the nice biscuits and get you digestives without chocolate’ John warned himself.  
‘This may come in useful actually’ Sherlock made a leap off the sofa with the energy John never saw whenever he asked Sherlock to do the washing up or go food shopping, unless it was to run in the opposite direction. 

‘You still haven’t told me what you were doing in my room in the first place.’

Sherlock gave him a raised eyebrow as a response, John had been living with the man long enough to know it was pointless even trying to be offended by the genius using those busy beauties as a replacement for actual words. He also had been living with Sherlock long enough to know that the slight bend in the arch clearly meant 'I am Sherlock Holmes, I could tell you, but I wont. My explanation is.....I am Sherlock Holmes.' Git.

'Okay, fine. More importantly why are my school boy doodles going to come in useful?'

Sherlock was never one to hide when he was excited, no matter what the cause, and he was excited by exactly three things, murder, mystery and tea. John was very good at noticing Sherlock's mood and judging by the look of poor joy across his face he was very happy indeed, Which could mean only one thing.

'Whose dead this time?'

‘There is a murderer on the loose in London, papers are going crazy over it. Even The Guardian.’ Just in case he was not believed, Sherlock shoved the days issue of the middle class liberals favourite under his nose. Sure enough a pretty girl’s gruesome death was the topic of the front page. 'Emily Allsworth was found Thursday morning on Wimbledon common with her throat slashed, dog walker stumbled across her and before you ask no, I interviewed him yesterday and he had nothing to do with it.'

'Interviewed or harassed?'

'Harassed is such a strong word'

'Sherlock!'

'John how many times do I have to tell you how I get my answers does not matter, only that I do'

John sighed knowing this was a battle he would never win

'What makes you so sure he had nothing to do with it? Slightly convenient just stumbling across a body like that.' John wondered out loud, he had read that story plenty of times in bad detective novels, how sometimes killers love injecting themselves into an inquiry.

'Because John' Sherlock scoffed 'Our killer has now murdered three women without being caught. Our man in dangerous, clever, ruthless, does any of those characteristics sound like they belong to a fifty year old, unemployed, steam train enthusiast with a bichon frise called fluffy?!'

John slouched in his chair, quickly reading through the fading print. ‘Says here there is no connection between this death and the one last week.’

‘that is because the police are idiots’

He really should have expected that response. Oh well, at least Sherlock was consistent, most of the time. John quickly kissed his evening goodbye. Not that he minded, he could feel his heart beat and a smile appear. This was what he lived for, he was getting worse then Sherlock with loving a good murder. Smiling at a murder? Only in 221B, please don’t tell his mum. 

‘So, what makes you so sure these deaths are connected?’

‘Both women went to the same art class. I despise coincidences, it is just another way of saying there is a connection but I am too stupid to figure it out. The class starts in an hour, I say we go.'

'I take it this is where I come in?' John had the distinct feeling his ability to draw was going to be used by Sherlock. 

Sherlock smiled at him, baring his front teeth as if they were fangs 'Where would I be without my blogger?'

Before John could reply Sherlock was bounding down the stairs.

‘Sherlock, code 7.’ He yelled after his best friend.

‘For gods sake, why can’t I solve crime like this?’ 

‘Because, Sherlock bloody Holmes, I don't care how much a genius you are, or how much you can solve things mere mortals like me can't, you are not, I repeat NOT, solving a murder in your pyjamas and that is final.'

He was still in his sodden shoes and wet coat, forgetting to take them off when he had been surprised by his old art work, but the excitement of a new case had overridden any discomfort he may have previously felt. The thrill, the battlefield, was the focus now, a searing white speck in his brain that destroyed anything and everything else that came in its path. Wet clothes included. Like a fox catching the scent of a rabbit, nothing else was given any room in his brain. John briefly wondered when he had actually become Sherlock. Probably as soon as the idiot asked for his phone.

‘The game is on!’ A newly dressed, and enviably dry Sherlock appeared from his room. John swallowed, trying to get his spit to coat the now completely arid throat. God that man and his stupidly tight shirts would be the death of him. Hopefully he would get a shag before he was killed and lying in a (possibly watery) grave.

The taxi as usual appeared completely by magic. If the detective work dried up and Sherlock needed a new career, magically making a taxi appear from nowhere would certainly delight tourists in Trafalgar Square. He may even get on the One Show when they had space to fill and no imagination. 

There were two types of taxi rides when you are with Sherlock Holmes. The first is when he speaks a mile a minute, probably not even registering that you are there, just a brain screaming at him to speak, speak, speak and that silence was the enemy. Anything, the case, Mozart, chocolate biscuit, cake recipes, deductions about the state of the cab drivers marriage, anything. If you slow down, if you halt, your brain will stop working and it will become sludge. Just go go go until you reach wherever it was you were heading for. 

The second, and John’s favourite as it meant he could just relax and Sherlock would not give himself a heart attack, was his friend disappearing in his own private and silent world. Saying nothing till they reached wherever it was they were going. Silence was nice, it was comforting, he could think, like a soft blanket wrapped around him, and Sherlock seemed to feel exactly the same. John had never confronted his friend about why he would never talk for days, but often he would wonder. His conclusion was a rather sad one, one that he would never share for fear of upsetting his closest companion. He said noise would distract him but John knew better, when Sherlock was focused nothing could disturb him, noise included. Noise he would associate with jeering bullies on the playground, with university peers laughing at him, with Scotland Yard taunting him. Silence meant he was alone in a lab, alone his his room, he was alone and no one was there to mock him. Words hurt more then anything else, more the the sharpest knife. Words were something Sherlock needed above all else, but they were also something he had grown to fear.

When Sherlock pulled out his phone and started frantically texting, John assumed that was it, he settled himself to stare out of the window, watching the wet capital streak past. Watching the raindrops fall down the pane of glass. Watching his reflection stare back at him, war torn and weather beaten. Watching, Just watching. He was content. Closing his eyes and listening to the sounds of the city and the frantic tapping of Sherlock’s fingers.

‘Why did you give it up?’ John snapped his eyes open as Sherlock’s voice cut through the silence. 

‘What?’ 

‘Art. You were clearly talented, you clearly enjoyed it or you would not have kept the pictures for all this time.’ Sherlock blurted out, but he did not look up from his phone. 'People do not tend to hold on to something they have a negative association with.'

John continued to look at the rain as if it was the most interesting thing in the entire world, refusing to meet the other man’s gaze. 

He shrugged ‘Joined the army, doesn't give you much time to paint.’ 

‘And now?’

John bit his lip, feeling strangely uncomfortable by the question, ‘I am always off solving crimes with you.’ 

The last time he had a pencil in his hand for any reason other than writing was to sketch his old girlfriend. She was lounging on the bed, naked and giggling at him. He had done nothing since. 

‘Such a waste.’ 

John gave a low chuckle ‘Why do you care? You hate art’ 

John could have sworn he saw a blush. At that moment he would have done anything to have a camera to capture the line of soft pink that had formed on his cheek bone, it was a rare creature, almost extinct and the contents of his entire bank account would have been happily swapped to be able to lean over and place his lips over the faint colour. 

Sherlock looked away, taking the blush with him and out of sight, ‘It would make you happy.’ he mumbled, so quietly John could barely hear it. 

The embarrassment was palpable, Sherlock curling in on himself, his shoulders hunched and his legs drawn up, his hair covering his face, making himself as small as he could and focusing all his attention on his phone. Everything indicating that he was trying to disappear into the air surrounding them in the cramped space.

‘I need you to speak to as many people in the class as you can, don’t mention the murders. Just be casual.’ Quickly changing the subject was a fairly pedestrian defense, but it was a defense non the less and John had no desire to continue sitting in such tension.

‘And you?’

‘I want to have a look round, do not mention knowing me, just pretend you’re here alone.’

They stopped a few streets away to hide their partnership, John memorising the rudimentary directions he was given before leaping out of the cab. The taxi door slammed shut and Sherlock bounded away as if he was running from him and was quickly out of sight. John tried to ignore that sinking feeling in the it of his chest and just got out his wallet. 

'Don't worry Sherlock, cab fare is on me, oh no don't thank me, you get the first round in and we are even. I know I know, such a caring friend I am.'

The building was old, red bricked and large windows with freshly painted frames. Probably one of those old town halls that had been converted by the council to service the community. It was warm inside, the rain had subsided enough that there was only the faintest noise coming from the street. 

‘Here for the anatomy class?’ A smiling receptionist with far too cool a haircut for John’s liking asked. 

‘Yeah, where do I go?’

‘Through there.’ He smiled sickeningly, pointing through the doors ‘All materials will be provided. There is tea and coffee if you like, it wont start for another twenty minutes.’

Yeah, thanks’ John mumbled back, taking his coat off and folding it over his arms. 

‘I am John, I’m a doctor and live in Baker street’ was rehearsed over and over again in his mind. He could feel thirty pairs of eyes stare at him in his wet shoes and silly jumper. Grabbing a coffee he tried to put himself in his best sociable and utterly charming mode, the fact that one or more of these people could be responsible for the death of some young and very pretty women certainly did not help to settle his uneasiness. Like Sherlock, he could not bare small talk, though unlike Sherlock he could actually mask his lack of interest with funny jokes and a nice smile. Not for the first time he wished he had Sherlock's skills as an actor, how the hell was he supposed to pretend to be interested in people he could not care less about, especially when one of them was a murderer?

There was nothing about feeling as if you had a large bullseye on your back and everyone waiting to pounce that John particularly enjoyed, but he would power through. Secretly, he was rather excited, the thrill of the chase was fun, of course it was, he wouldn't put up with Sherlock being an absolute mentalist if it wasn't, but that was a given. No, there was something else. For the first time in ages he was given a chance to get a pencil between his fingertips and allow his brain to go into that secret space that only existed when he allowed himself to draw. That space where everything just faded away, where everyone and everything that had ever bothered him just melted away in insignificance, where he could just relax and focus on making something. 

The room was also strangely comforting. It was large, chairs and easels already set up in the centre, ready for them. Around the sides there were various art equipment and projects and the whole room smelt of clay and paint. Suddenly he was seventeen years old again, suddenly the world was fun and bright, suddenly he was a spotty teen who didn't have to worry about bills or taxes, suddenly he was sneaking off to parks to drink under age, he was borrowing his dads car and playing The Clash in his old battered stereo, suddenly Rosie Walker became his one true love even though they had only spoken twice and that was to ask his name and if he had a spare pen. 

He did not know how, but carried on that smell was a boy who had never been to war, who had never seen death or conflict, who didn’t have a psychosomatic limp or a small army pension. who had nothing but the entire world, ready and waiting for him. 

‘Hello, you’re new, I am Cynthia’ John was broken out of his daydream and nostalgia by an American accent and a warm smile. She was small, wavy auburn hair tied in a loose, messy bun and couldn’t have been any older than 20. She looked like every art school stereotype you could imagine, from her battered converse to her heavy fringe. She also looked just like the dead women in the picture, John kicked himself for forgetting he name, so caught up in the chase he had forgotten a girl was dead, and that she wasn't just a puzzle, but someone with a name and a family who would mourn her. God, he really had become like Sherlock.

‘John. John Watson. I am a doctor.I live in Baker Street.’

‘Nice to meet you. You certainly picked the right night to come, it is a life drawing. I really hope we get a man, ever done one before?’ She said this all very fast. 

He found himself fighting his conscience, Cynthia was in danger, what if the killer slipped away and it was her body a poor dog walker would find the next day. He wanted to warn her, get her the hell out of here, he wanted to save her. On a scale of one to ten how pissed of would Sherlock be if he broke his cover? Very would be the answer. It was pointless, would do more harm then good to tell her why he was really here, no doubt it would mean there one chance of catching this guy would slip away along with the guilty party, so he bit his lip and said nothing. Though he was sure he would keep a firm eye on Cynthia the whole night. 

'Once. A long time ago. Though it was a women covered in tattoos, I think she was a stripper needing some extra money.'

Cynthia laughed. 'Women are harder to draw I find, I can never get that curve right.'

The coffee he was holding had cooled slightly, still warm enough to drink and John sipped it while attempting not to be too obvious in his scoping methods, trying his best to pick up as much of the conversations as he could. 

‘Tuppence is doing so well at school, her teacher is saying she is reading well beyond her ears, I keep telling Sarah to put her into a school for the gifted.’ 

‘Excellent, oh did i tell you about the wine tasting I went to last night? They had the most wonderful olives and cheese.’

‘I really want the promotion, but Roger is so well ahead of me.’

‘oh don’t count yourself out just yet, you would be brilliant’

‘Our house in the south of France is delightful but it has the worst plumbing imaginable, honestly, and you trying getting one to come out on a Sunday, they just do not want to know.’

‘Henry is joining the yacht club, I think his midlife crises has started.’

Looking around there was no one John would specifically say was capable of killing, but he supposed you just never knew these days. Everyone always says how normal serial killers act but this was taking things a bit far. Most of them were pensioners for crying out loud. 

Assumptions were bad, very bad, this is why Scotland yard were idiots (supposedly), how would Sherlock look at the scene? Pensioners, excellent opportunities to kill people as no one would suspect you and everyone trusts you, no one would think a little old lady would do anything other than knitting and eating fudge, would they? Old women were the ultimate in non threatening cosiness. Why didn't more of them kill people? They would be brilliant at it. 

Who was next? Ah yes, Cynthia was not alone. Chatting away to some young hipsters, standing in a small circle and drinking bottle water. Maybe it was Cynthia? Just because she is pretty does not mean she is innocent. Were horribly fashionable young art students capable of killing? he certainly wanted to kill them. 

His eyes rested on a man who looks around his age, straggly ginger beard, leather jacket and red bandanna. Broad in both the chest and neck he was they type John would never want to meet on a dark night. Don’t make assumptions don’t make assumptions. He is probably a perfectly lovely individually who may even adopt homeless kittens and puppies. 

‘Hi, I’m John.’ he held out a hand.

‘Jack’ he smiled back, taking his palm in an iron grip, revealing a gold tooth. ‘Sorry, I got to make a call’ 

He is calling his accomplice to see if he was ready with the rolled up bit of carpet and a shovel. Oh for gods sake John grow up.

He wondered how Sherlock was getting on. What one earth was the man doing? Why did he need to sneak around when all the action was in here?

‘Hello there dear.’

Smiling sweetly was quite possibly the tiniest woman John had ever seen in his life. Wavy grey hair was curled around her face, her blue eyes peeking out over a pair of half moon glasses. A handbag covered in yorkshire terriers rested at her feet. She was....well, she filled just about every stereotype regarding old women imaginable, right down to her lilac cardigan and strong smell of lavender.

‘Would you like a mint?’ she offered up an enormous bag of Murray mints, or maybe it was average sized at it just looked big in her tiny hands, John politely declined. 

‘Hi. I am John Watson. I am a doctor. I live in Baker street.'

‘A doctor eh? I know quite a few doctors, you tend to when you reach my age. Iris's grandson is a doctor too. Though he seems far more interested in girls then actually studying. Oh, I am rambling, terrible habit of mine I know. I am Florence. Friends call me flossie.’

‘come here often?’

‘Oh yes, I’ve always loved art, though I had to give it up when i married George, I had to give up all sorts of things, women did in those days. You look a bit like him you know’ she added, sadly. ‘he died last year, i miss him something rotten.’

John immediately regretted not taking a mint.

‘Oh look at me, chatting away, what did you say your name was? I have an awful memory for names' she laughed, John smiled back, a genuine smile for the first time that night.

‘John’

‘Oh, I love the name John, always wanted a little boy to call John. George and I tried for years but, no, wasn’t meant to be I guess.’

‘Will you sit next to me? I don’t really know anyone here.’

‘Oh of course dear. I know, it’s scary being new isn’t it? Apparently we are doing a life drawing tonight, oh I hope it is a nice looking man, been ages since I saw a nice bit of cock.’

John spat out his coffee. 

Then his heart completely stopped altogether.

‘Okay everyone, if you can settle down we shall get to work.’ the receptionist said cheerily as he strode into the room, holding the door with the very edge of his fingertips to keep it open. John was not listening. 

John Watson was not even thinking. He screwed up his eyes, wondering f this was all a rather bizarre dream, or if he was seeing things. He opened them again, nope, nothing had changed.

He waited for a few seconds, wondering when the shooting pains in his arm would begin, signalling he had really gone into cardiac arrest. Suddenly realising where he was and what he was supposed to be doing, he took a seat, jammed between Cynthia and Florence, bandanna man sat behind him blocking his only exit out of the, now suddenly rather cramped, room. 

He messed about with the easel, played around with the charcoals, tried desperately to flirt only ever so slightly with Cynthia, struck up a pointless conversation with Florence about the new presenter on countdown, anything he could possibly think of to take his mind from what was happening directly in front of him. 

‘Oh gosh, that model is beautiful’ the old lady gasped. 

Cynthia nodded 'Oh god do you think he is single? 

Please be quiet, please do not say anything, please shut up, shut up shut up shut up shut up.

Of course Sherlock had never been far from his thoughts, the man never was, the all- encompassing git, but he had assumed the curly haired monster would be off looking around, hiding in a cupboard ready to jump out when someone walked passed, interrogating the cleaner, anything. He had not suspected for a single moment Sherlock Holmes would be doing……………………..this. 

John was officially in a state of shock, actual, physical, vomit inducing, shock. Pale skin? check. Overriding desire to throw up? Check. Possible hard on? he wasn’t telling. 

Life drawings were no big deal, honestly, no big deal whatsoever, we were all the same underneath after all, he had done them a few times at school, he was a doctor to boot, add a life in the army and it all equals John really not caring at all about naked bodies. 

This was different. This was all going to hell in a hand basket. Yes he had done life drawings, yes he had been a soldier and a doctor, but there was Sherlock standing in nothing but a dressing gown and waiting for a class of people, including John, to draw him. Naked. He was going to have to draw Sherlock Holmes naked. Naked. Did he mention naked?

This was new, this was horrifyingly having to draw someone that you desperately wanted to make dirty, filthy, hard sex with. While they were naked. Oh god he was about to see Sherlock naked. 

Please don’t think about his penis please don’t think about it penis. Oh god what did it look like? Big, small, thick, thin? Fuck. Too late. He could not draw it? No. If he avoided drawing it Sherlock would he had been avoiding looking there, and he would immediately know he was attracted to him. If he did draw it, Sherlock would know John had not avoided looking there, and he would immediately know John was attracted to him. Oh god he was screwed, and not in the way he wanted to be.

Please stop thinking about his penis, please stop thinking about his penis. Right now. Stop. Thinking. About. Sherlock. Holmes’s. Penis. Right. Now. 

The intense look on Sherlock’s face was a clear indication that John Watson was not in his thoughts right now. Either that or he was doing a really good job of pretending not to know him. That was solid proof that someone up there was looking out for him, as if Sherlock was to even glance in his direction right now he would see him a bright shade of red, probably sweating, definitely sweating, breathing heavily and he may even have spontaneously combusted. 

‘This is Tom, he is going to be modelling for you today.’

Tom? Where the hell had he got Tom from?

John opened his mouth, trying to join in with the murmur of awkward hellos that echoed around the room. 

Why was Sherlock being a life model? Wasn’t he supposed to be doing…..something else, anything else, interrogating witnesses, looking for clues, doing a tap dance, bloody anything. 

This was his worst nightmare, and possibly his greatest fantasy all rolled into one tall, beautiful and soon to be completely starkers package. 

Considering the amount of times Sherlock had stupidly risked his life for the chase, you would have thought John would have seen Sherlock naked by now. Surprisingly no. What lay underneath those stupidly tight suits and flappy coats was a mystery to him. He had patched him up, fixed him, put plasters and ice packs on various wounds, saw him come out of the shower wrapped in a towel, but that was as far as it have ever gone. John regretted not trying harder to see him without his clothes on, now not only would he not be in this position now, on the verge of passing out, but he would have had a full and complete fantasy for his midnight wank sessions. 

Damn you Sherlock, damn you Sherlock for not being a nudist so I could prepare for this. 

The sound of clattering easels and conversation woke him from his thoughts, he jumped, grabbing a pencil and nearly crushing it with the force of his hand. His eyes had not moved from their position, fixed on Sherlock’s bare collarbone. The dressing gown hung off him, the belt tied loosely, casually following the line of his waist. Just below his collar the dressing gown had left a a patch of his chest exposed, leaving a small patch of creamy white skin that taunted John from afar, showing the very beginning of his toned pectorals. Daydreams were suddenly filled with his excited hands reaching in through the gap in the dressing gown, running the pads of his fingertips through his soft body hair and across to the nipples. Teasing them till hard buds formed between his digits. Kissing down the neck, the gap between the bone and the throat looked so inviting. Sherlock’s neck was long, the adam’s apple bobbing very slightly up and down as Sherlock swallowed. 

‘Are you okay dear? You are looking rather flushed.’

‘yeah, I am fine, really, fine’

He was not fine. 

Just in case he was worried at just how much he was falling apart, there was the juxtaposition with the utter calmness in his friends face. He looked so still, as if being nude in front of complete strangers was something he did every day.

‘Okay everyone, yoga babies will be here in one hour, so lets make a start’

Sherlock nodded, stood on the little platform in front of them and took off his dressing gown. 

His feet, that was what John looked at first. Yep, he would look a Sherlock’s feet. Feet, he was safe with feet. There was nothing inherently embarrassing at seeing someone else's feet. You did not hide your feet away from strangers, you were safe with feet, you were not worried about what a new partner would think of your feet the first time they saw them, (unless your feet were especially horrible), so John felt quite happy just to keep his eyes on feet level and keep them there for the time being.

Now he had undressed, John could see Sherlock was nervous, it was clear . He had a slight nervous twitch of scrunching his toes into the floor, then releasing them, stretching them out till they lay flat, and doing it again, and he was doing it now right in front of him. He certainly didn’t look nervous, or shy and timid to anyone else, anyone willing to be naked in front of strangers would certainly not be seen as a shrinking violet, and Sherlock was standing there like some prized specimen who was just about to receive a ‘best in show’ rosette. Tall, standing straight, looking right at the group with a hand on one hip, leaning slightly to one side so his hip jutted outwards towards them. Yet John knew by that slight nervous gesture he was not quite as cool as ice as he looked to the rest of the group. He was pretty sure he was the only one on earth who knew that he was. How many people had seen Sherlock naked? His parents, Mycroft, nurses, doctors,…...a lover?

His feet were a perfectly typical of everything physical about Sherlock Holmes. A light dusting of hair that gleamed as they caught the light when you looked hard enough. Long toes, very long toes, thing and angular, with perfectly polished nails (god that man was vain) at the tip. The bottom half of the soles of his feet was slightly pinker than the rest of him, warmer and darker that contrasted beautifully with the pale skin that was above it. Like a pink rose petal against snow. The skin looked smooth, like a newborn babies, his feet did not looked like they belonged to a man who ran, charged, crossed, galloped over the capital at speed for hours on end. They looked like they had never seen anything but massaging hands and the softest carpets. 

John grabbed a pencil, his cheeks burned with self consciousness as he had spent what felt like forever just gawping at his friend, rather than actually drawing him. If he was paying attention he would see others frantically trying to get lines and curves on paper, the constant sound of pencil against paper filled the air, he would have even heard dear, sweet Florence offering him another mint, but John was not paying attention, he heard and saw nothing but that blessed figure in front of him. 

He scribbled down an ankle, hoping that would indicate he was actually doing something, trying to ignore the throb in his trousers or a persistent ache deep inside. 

He could not resist, could not stop his eyes roaming upwards, greedily drinking in the calf’s and lower leg. Dark leg hair scattered itself, engulfing the dreamy white skin that stretched over the muscles. Knees, knobbly, barely looking like they could hold the weight above them (he really needed to fatten that man up), all leading to giving Sherlock the look of a newborn giraffe. 

He jutted his head up, skipping that part of Sherlock for now, thank you very much, instead he went straight to the chest, very little hair, just some along the pectorals and leading down to the bellybutton and further. It looked so fine, dark and wiry, but barely visible unless it was in clumps and the light was shining on it just right. John was desperate to run his hands along it, to see how it felt, he wanted to run his mouth along that strong chest and have the hair tickle his nose ever so slightly. 

His nipples were light enough to nearly be invisible. The barest shade of pink, small and perfectly circular. His ribs poked out just enough to cause John to insist on a takeaway when they got back to 221B. 

Everything about Sherlock’s chest screamed home to him, the angles, the smoothness, the way he was so deceptively strong. It all screamed that this was somewhere he could lay his head at night, this was somewhere that would shield him from whatever was flung at him, that this was shelter from the storm, there was a sense of security at just looking at the long chest, knowing a heart was beating faithfully in the rib cage and lungs were breathing in and out. God, he had it bad. Real bad. 

Sherlock’s right arm hung by his side, his left held his hip causing his arm to be in the shape of a right angle. His arms were long and thin, like the rest of him. John stared at the hands that picked things up, put things down, searched, clenched, grasped, hit. His fingers were long, like his toes, thin and prolonged. Perfect for exploring and trying to make sense of the world. his fingers were the space between his being and existence, his spirit and planet Earth. 

His shoulders, his collarbone, holding up the long neck that lead to the bed of curls. He stared, as if he had never seen Sherlock before in his entire life, as if he was not playing pretend and he really was just a stranger to him. He knew he was attracted to Sherlock, deeply, he knew he found Sherlock beautiful, he knew he found Sherlock so god damn fuckable he wanted to scream, but he had never been presented to him like this before, all laid out and on show, it was as if he was seeing him for the very first time. The nose, lips, chin, forehead, his gaze lost in the sea-green eyes. 

He could not help it any longer, he looked, the hips, his cock, his balls, it was perfect, it was all so perfect, he wanted to lick, bite, suck, scream. He hardened, he couldn't help it, it was a reaction he could not halt or put a stop to. His mouth went completely dry. Breathing became shallow and quick. 

Blue eyes suddenly met grey and John felt a bolt of electricity run through him.

Sherlock quickly glanced away, leaving John feeling deeply embarrassed, hoping he had hid his attraction and sense of arousal, but knowing that was rather futile considering he was Sherlock Holmes. 

John could clearly see Sherlock had on his deducing face. His brows slightly furrowed, absolute concentration in his face. Deducing every single one to see who was capable of murder. He had probably completely forgotten he was butt naked or that John even existed.

He could do nothing but lose himself in time, as if the world, this room, 221 B, the cases, the surgery, everyone and everything just melted away. He focused solely on Sherlock’s naked form till he forget even his own name, who he was and where he came from. His future, his past, nothing existed any more except for the lines of skin and the muscle it held beneath. 

Was anyone else in the room looking at him this way? Had anyone looked at him like that, ever? Had Sherlock in his life had someone just stare at him, drink him in till the world just faded away? It seemed impossible, but John felt that he knew better. That everyone just saw a 6ft something mass of intelligence and coldness, he was a bastard, a wanker, a freak, a monster. He was not human, a psychopath, no empathy, no emotion, a machine, he was nothing you ever wanted to get involved with. No friends, he didn’t deserve any, no lovers, who would want to get involved with him? A virgin? Serves him right. 

Not for the first time he wondered if he was the only one on earth who saw a different Sherlock, the real Sherlock. Who had looked beyond the cold, standoffish, sometimes just plain flippant behaviour and saw the warmth underneath. Perhaps he was the first to see that Sherlock was so desperate to make sense of a world which did not want nor care for him. There were many times he had come to John, begging, pleading even, for a guide on how exactly humans worked. ‘Why did he do that?’ ‘Why did she do this?’ ‘Why doesn't everyone think like me?’ ‘I said something and everyone got upset, why?’, he was just so desperate to understand. 

Sherlock shifted slight, John became utterly entranced by the way his skin moved, the light dancing over the exposed flesh. 

How much time had passed, how long had he been here? Sitting here and just staring, fantasising over what could be. Days? Hours? Minutes? Moments? It all seemed as if time had lost its very purpose, till there was simply nothing to measure any more. He had never seen Sherlock so quiet before, so still, so composed. His brain was always working, but he had never seen his body do nothing. Just standing there, doing nothing but watching. Usually he was a flurry of activity, even in the moments where he said nothing, his hands were doing something, playing with the violin or tapping out a forgotten beat on his knee.

He still had only drawn an ankle, his hands frozen, refusing to do any more, refusing to work or receive any signals from his brain. Glancing over both Cynthia and Florence had nearly complete pictures, he wasn't sure if he wanted to rip them up or frame them. 

He was desperate to get out of here, he wanted to just snap his pencil in half, throw it on the floor and storm out, run out and get some air, get a pint in some dodgy bar in the back end of no where. he just could not take it any more, not one more second whatever in the hell this actually was. Was he doing it on purpose? Did Sherlock know? Was he up there, smirking, laughing, going giddy at his distress? 

As much as he wanted so badly to run, he knew he could not. They were undercover, however bizarre this undercover job actually was, it was still a case. He could not bring any attention to himself, any slight little thing that he did had to be so very ordinary and completely unnoticeable, so much so that everyone would have forgotten he was even there. Charging out of the room in some kind of mad panic was certainly not fulfilling the brief.

Was Sherlock finished yet? Did he have everything solved in a neat little package with a decorative bow on top? He must have. He always did, after all this was Sherlock Holmes. Where was Lestrade? Where was Scotland Yard? Were they outside hiding? Ready to come in all guns blazing and trap everyone inside, all bright eyed and bushy tailed, ready for Sherlock to simply point at someone so they could bring out the handcuffs. No explanation needed, lets all go to the pub folks, case is closed. 

Or maybe Sherlock was feeling more melodramatic, he did love a stage after all. Maybe he was waiting for the opportune moment to strike, to start rattling off a list of deductions and some hell bent concept over who was guilty and who was innocent. Perhaps they would leave, skulk off in the shadows and follow someone home, ending in a dramatic shoot out like something from a film.

This was not the Hollywood however, there was no shooting, no screaming, no hero pushing John to the ground out of the range of gunfire. No swirling music. He was not on a cop show. This was not the mean streets of LA or New York, this was London, so instead of some heavily tattooed gangster yelling he was about to pop a cap in everyone’s backsides, they got a man in a blue pullover telling them that they needed to clear up their stuff because yoga babies were here.

‘I need the loo, any idea where they are?’ he asked Flossie. 

‘Oh yes dear, out those doors, third door on the left.’

Trying not to think was hard when his brain was about to shatter in a billion pieces. The cubicle John chose was right at the end on the toilets, the bright light and hum of a hand dryer made his head sore. That and………..everything else.

Putting the lid down he sat, thinking how on earth he had gotten into this state, he had the worst luck. He flopped his head down, grabbing at his hair with his hands and trying to resist the urge to scream. Why him? Just why? How had he ended up like this? Ended up here?

Breathing out sharply he mentally slapped himself. He needed to get over this, grow up and pull himself together. This was not the way to behave, acting like a sulking teenager, he was a grown man for crying out loud. He could not just stay in the bathroom and hide, he needed to find Sherlock and do whatever the hell they needed to do, preferably without getting murdered in the process. 

The determination gave him a new burst of energy, something to hold on to and use. He ran out the door into the corridor, ready to face whatever it was that lay in wait for him, but instead of being the brave and fearless soldier he wished to be, he let out a childish little yelp as a hand came out of nowhere and dragged him into a room. 

John mentally cursed himself for being so slow and unprepared. The shock quickly subsided into a voice berating him for not paying attention to his surroundings. A murderer was on the loose and he was not on his guard, idiot. While calling himself all manner of insults he tried to gloss over the fact that voice sounded suspiciously like Sherlock. 

He let out a low grunt as he was pushed face first up against the wall, one arm held behind his back, the other held at the wrist with a strong hand. A tall, thin body covered his own, the scent of spice and adventure filled his nostrils. Relief at knowing he was not about to be killed by an artistic maniac was quickly replaced by a surge of arousal at the close proximity of a body that had been dominating his midnight fantasies for months. 

‘I tell you a murderer is among us and you stroll around casually? I know you like danger, John but don’t be so foolish’

The way that dark, sultry voice said his name as if it were made of the softest caramel did nothing to hamper his arousal, i fact quite the opposite. The burgeoning erection trapped almost painfully by the wall, his breathing coming out in small pants as breath ghosted the back of his neck, causing tiny hairs to stand up and feel the warmth. It felt as if tiny surges of current were running through parts of his, his elbows his knees, the backs of his legs. It would be annoying if he was not so distracted by the pain of his hardness straining in his jeans. It was an awkward position, his knees buckling under the weight of himself, all he could do was lean back, putting his mass against Sherlock’s back, trying to get himself at least a little bit comfortable. 

‘I see you have got dressed, I know you love to put on a show but solving something while naked is dramatic even for you.’ He let the sarcasm flow through his words, savouring the caustic tones it left in his mouth. 

Sherlock let out a dark chuckle. ‘Lestrade was on standby the whole time, the man in the bandana is on his way to the yard as we speak.’

‘Ha!’ John let out a tiny, almost triumphant yelp ‘I knew it was him! I just knew it!’

He did not have to see Sherlock’s face to know that a dramatic eye roll had just taken place 

‘Never make assumptions John, very dangerous.’ 

The voice had lost none of its dark edge as he was chastised, though there was no malice to it at all. If it were possible, John would have even said it was warm. 

‘So, why are you not out there basking in the glow of your success?’ His erection was getting absurd now, his skin danced as if a fire was against it. He shifted uncomfortably as he lost most of the feeling in his legs. His shoulders screaming with having Sherlock’s weight against them.

‘New puzzle, far more exciting.’ John giggled at the almost childlike nature of such a statement, it was so Sherlock that the flicker of familiarity made his heart jump. Only ever interested in what was new, what was exciting, what he had not quite figured out the answer to yet. 

‘And what is this new mystery you have your eye on?’

There was a long, almost agonising pause, as if time had just stopped, as if someone has paused the video and they were all sitting very still, waiting for them to press play. John let out a shuddering breath, waiting for a response. His head hit against the wall, his forehead rubbing against the smooth surface, he tried to move away but Sherlock just held on tighter making him feel rather like a mouse being taunted by a cat. Its claws digging into his tail as he tried to escape.

‘You’

The voice was barely above a whisper, a growling undertone gave it such an edge it caused all the air around him to prickle. 

Despite being a warm room John suddenly felt icy cold, panic started to surge through him. He could not think except to swear at the situation he had found himself in. He really was an idiot. 

‘Yes, you were in there an hour at yet all you drew was an ankle.’

The mouse now was flat on its back, just begging the cat to give it a swift death so it would all be over with. Every fibre of his being was screaming with either pain, arousal, excitement or acute embarrassment. Had he been too obvious? Too careless? Had Sherlock noticed the way he looked at him when he thought no eyes were on him? Had he made it too blatant? The way he stared at his nakedness as if he was about to devour him. Had the fantasies played out on his face? Naked, writhing, sweat filled fantasies. Could Sherlock see it like it was played out by a projector? 

With a swift movement Sherlock turned him around, his back hitting the wall with a thunk as his shoulder blades collided with the chipped paintwork. John did not even attempt to fight it, knowing full well the other man had the upper hand in this particular situation, with both arms immobilised and his brain fuzzy from the hardness between his legs there was no point, he was putty in the consulting detectives hands. To save his bruised ego from too much of an onslaught he went through all the ways he would have an intruder on the ground and begging for mercy, if this was any other time and place John would be his usual bad arse self, if there was no sweet breath, long limbs flushed against him, no curls tickling his cheeks, if was just some ugly, sweaty balding guy he would take care of himself just fine, it was just the pretty that had him as defenseless as a newborn baby, damn the pretty. 

John blinked, allowing Sherlock to come into focus. His brain seemed even more dizzy and unworkable at that sight now he knew what lay underneath those impossibly tight shirts. He was close, Sherlock’s face took up his whole line of sight, he could see every speck of green in his eyes and every slight blemish of pink on his otherwise pale face. He could not focus on one aspect of Sherlock, instead his eyes fluttered everywhere, all over the other man's face and hair, as if stopping to look would spell certain doom. The nerves seemed to take comfort in that, in not look at anything in particular, only glancing at something so familiar he could see it in his sleep, yet there was so much there he didn't know, he didn't know how it tasted, how his eyes looked when he was drunk with pleasure, how he looked when he came………..

‘an ankle, why only an ankle? Sherlock demanded.’

John had a problem, a very big, throbbing, hard problem. Facing Sherlock there was no way he could hide that, no way he could discreetly cover something that size (not that he was boasting mind you, he was very secure in that department thank you very much, very secure indeed). He could pretend it was the close proximity, he could pretend it was an involuntary reaction, he could lie and say he enjoyed being bound and pushed up against a wall (which he rather did but that is a whole other story), he could claim it was just an adverse reaction to external stimuli and he really had no control over it whatsoever (which was partially true, I mean who wants to have a massive hard on over your asexual best friend while hunting a murderer?) but remember this is Sherlock Holmes, the man who can tell if you are having an affair simply by how you do up your tie, it would be useless to try and hide something so major as a sexual attraction from him, pointless even.

All he could do was stare sheepishly down at his betraying member, feeling his cheek flush with the very darkest shade of red. 

‘Is that clear enough for you?’

Now, there is now way a man could get to the age of thirty six and not see an erect penis, no way on earth even if you were an asexual consulting detective, you knew what one looked like,  it is not possible but that was the way Sherlock was looking at him right now, as if he had just encountered an alien species he had never seen or heard of before, he just kept looking down, then back at John, then down once more. His mouth open, his eyes wide. The expression  Sherlock was wearing was something John had never, ever seen in Sherlock’s face before, something that actually made him feel slightly queasy, it was a look the average joe wore more times then they would care to remember, a look of being totally and utterly unsure.

Unsure. No confidence. Timid. Insecure. Apprehensive. Fearful. These are not words you would associate with Sherlock Holmes. In fact they are the very opposite of what you would imagine when thinking of the world’s only consulting detective. He was never hesitant, or doubtful, not in a month of Sunday’s. This was Sherlock Holmes we are talking of here, he never had an uncertain moment in his entire life. Maybe he really had never seen a hard on before? It was possible, Sherlock was certainly not the type to even glance at porn, let alone have sex. He was still entirely unsure if the man was even human, maybe he did not have genitals either.His furrowed brows did nothing but reinforce this assumption.

Then, just then, ever so slightly, maybe even invisible to the naked eye, a tiny smile appeared on the taller man's face. Barely even noticeable, just the merest hint of the corner of his mouth being pulled upwards and his pupils becoming that bit larger. His face relaxed somewhat, not enough to look obvious or cartoonish, but enough to let the more observant individual know there was a change. 

Oh god maybe he was about to burst out laughing, maybe he was going to mock him for being so silly, so idiotic, so human. 

‘I know, caring is not an advantage’ he sighed, he would have hissed and spat out those words but this was too desperate a situation to try and save himself. 

‘John….’ 

‘It is okay, just leave, we will forget this ever happened’

‘John’ Sherlock said rather desperately. Running his hand through Johns short locks, eyes boring into his.

‘Do you think i would ever go without a phone?’

‘What?’ here he was having a nervous breakdown and Sherlock wanted to talk about phones?

‘First words I ever said to you, what was it’

‘Can I borrow your phone’

Think about John, use your brain for once, I never go without my phone and yet when you walk in suddenly I do not have one, I can tell so much from a man's phone? What does that tell you?’

‘You wanted to know about me?’

‘Precisely’

John could not hold it in any more, he pressed his lips against his friends. 

Sherlock tasted of everything John could have possibly wanted, he tasted of adventure, the chase, desire, longing, tobacco, spice, late hours when everyone else was in bed, London, it all wrapped itself around his taste buds, filling his mouth with scent and a taste so clear he knew it would never leave him. There was no time to ask if Sherlock had done his before, and everything about the way his mouth was not all teeth and spit suggested he had, or even if Sherlock even wanted this. The kiss left a million questions in his mind, but there was no part of him that wanted to ask any of them. All he wanted was lips and tongue.

The kiss devoured him, taking over his body so everything screamed Sherlock. Only their lips connected but oh how it felt so much more, as if every speck of his skin was being touched and caressed. he shoved his hand through Sherlock's hair, holding onto the curls tightly enough to bring out a low and dangerous growl from the other man. Holding the back of Sherlock's skull, pulling him forward, demanding more and more until the other man's nose was squashed against his cheek. It was addictive, the taste of Sherlock, that electric mix of familiarity and danger, it was intoxicating, the warmth of his lips and the softness of the beautiful pink lines, pressed so tightly against his. Hands digging into his hips so hard John was sure he would find bruises the next morning. 

An impatient tongue licked along the bottom of his lip and John would never in a million years denied Sherlock access. A bolt of desire shot through him as he imagined that red bar of muscle on other parts of his body, but for now his body fizzed with enough excitement that having it explore his mouth was enough. If it were possible for a body part to reflect its owner then Sherlock's tongue was doing just that. he had seen that tongue do so much, lick a lip in concentration, wrap itself around words of cleverness, anger, sarcasm, excitement, and now it was taking him apart in the most intimate way possible. Dancing and teasing, exploring, measuring, committing to memory everything about John's mouth, having a perfect mixture of making him feel incredibly satisfied and yet promising so much more. 

When John had had quite enough of feeling like a specimen Sherlock was experimenting on, he went on the attack. Pushing the inquisitive tongue back into it's own mouth, before following, feeling the sharp edges of Sherlock's teeth, then the smooth wetness of the roof of his mouth. Bucking his hips forward, allowing Sherlock to feel exactly what their encounter had caused, so there was no mistaking exactly what it was John wanted from him. Their hips slotting together in such a way John wondered if they could ever be taken apart. 

The hand on his hip loosened its grip, sliding along the top of his jeans. John groaned, letting out a jagged breath as Sherlock tucked a finger under the waistband of his boxer shorts. Letting his other finger dart into Johns navel. Feeling with the pads of his fingertips the soft hair that grew there. With a pop their mouths separated, Sherlock burrowing into the crook of John's neck, John leaning his neck to the right, allowing the other man access to the smooth skin to kiss and nip playfully. He closed his eyes, forcing his mind to go completely blank to to just enjoy the sensation of the world's only consulting detective leaving his mark. They would talk later of what they wanted, what they needed from each other, exactly what it was this was. Right now all John wanted was Sherlock's touch, his taste, his tongue. 

If John was a better man he would not have wanted to giggle so badly at watching the comical sight of a man with the intellect of Sherlock struggle with a belt. He would have helped those fumbling fingers, but he was too drunk on Sherlock and too excited to do anything but smile and watch. His jeans were too tight to allow Sherlock enough access to wrap those clever fingers around John's aching prick, the small space only allowing him to rub his middle and forefinger along the very tip of his penis. 

John was not ashamed in the least for Sherlock to feel the wet patch that had formed there, or for his fingers to become damp with his pre-cum. In fact his body vibrated with desire and lust for Sherlock to feel it. His whole body was flushed with warmth, his whole body shook with want, it was almost painful to be so consumed with need. It was so close to hurting, to feel the electricity in his veins, for his body to jolt, for his breath to stop and for his mind to race at the tiniest of Sherlock's movements. All of his body had now been taken over, the entire form that rested its weight against him, the curls tickling his nose, the mouth on his neck, the hand in his pants. 

There was a clicking sound of the belt being undone, heard so clearly in John's ears, his heart pounded in his chest as the cool air hit his thighs. Now Sherlock had more space, he grasped at John's hardness, getting down on his knees and burrowing his head into the space between John's erection and hip, ghosting his breath on John's exposed skin. John panted, putting his hand in his mouth and biting down hard on his finger. Sherlock kissed his hip bone, leaning down to lick a trail along the inside of John's left thigh. The toned muscle soft on his lips. 

His length was revealed painfully slowly, far too slow for John's liking, but he understood Sherlock's need to observe, to look at every single freckle and blemish. His black boxers tugged down in front of those grey orbs. John felt a personal victory at the look on his (lover's?) face when he finally revealed all his length. He did not have any time to savour appearance of thought in his mind as Sherlock licked the tip of his cock and it all went to hell. A hand cradles his balls, covering them with a palm that had held onto him so tightly. 

He wanted to tell Sherlock how good it all was, his tongue licking the edge of his sex but right now all he could get out was 'nngh', Sherlock seemed to sense this and decided  
now was a great time to hollow out his cheeks and take him all in, causing John to let out a loud moan, and may have possibly compared Sherlock to the son of God. If any man was capable of smirking with a mouthful of cock it would be Sherlock Holmes. if any man would want to be able to smirk with a mouthful of cock, it would be Sherlock Holmes. His eyes may still be clenched tightly shut, but he knew the reaction it would have caused. 

If John thought this was how he could come, with Sherlock's mouth on his manhood, kneeled down in front of him as if all his fantasies had come true at once, then John was very much mistaken. Just as he felt the prick, the little bud of pleasure opening up and his stomach muscles clenching around and empty space in his chest, then Sherlock lept to his feet, turning John around till his forehead was  resting against the wall. His hands propping himself up, palms open against the white paint. 

The was a snap of a lid and something which smelt suspiciously like hand cream filled his nose. The was a weight on his back, causing John to lean forward, he welcomed the weight, he welcomed the feet pushing his jeans and underwear till they lay around his ankles, he welcomed the thigh pushing his legs apart, he welcomed hot breath on the back of his ear, he welcomed the hand on his prick, no grip at all, just holding it there in place, letting him know his pleasure was not forgotten. he welcomed Sherlock's coat which covered his naked legs, he welcomed it all.

Quite how john managed to pant out the other man’s name as in long fingers teased his entrance, John had no idea. He hissed in pain, at the uncomfortable feeling of being invaded so intimately. It stung, to have such delicate muscles pulled apart in such a way. The pain would be brief, it would stop as soon as it had begun, John knew this but he could not stop himself from leaning forward and pulling himself away.

sensing his distress Sherlock tightened the grip on his cock, reminding the smaller man just how good he could make him feel, all the ecstasy and all the pleasure he had felt only moment earlier. Gradually the sharpness was replaced by a dull ache, and ache that was becoming more and more savored as the seconds ticked by. The hand on his cock began to move, pulling his foreskin up and down with his thumb. The other hand teasing, exploring, pulling him open with care. John let out a fragile moan as Sherlock's finger brushed against his prostate. Again and again till once more John felt himself on the brink. 

The fingers were removed, far too quickly for John's liking. So close, he was so close. He panted, turning his neck to kiss Sherlock on the lips. A few long seconds and he felt a prod of something much larger than a finger toying with his hole. Moving itself around the outside in a small circle, like a finger running around the lid of a jar before pushing himself into John. he let out what sounded like a work before Kissing John's ear. They settled into a steady rhythm. John pushed himself back, impaling himself as far as he could onto Sherlock's hardness, letting his cock fill him, take over him. His eyes rolled back in his head with pleasure. 

Sherlock let out a strangled cry, before spilling over and John quickly followed. Savoring his orgasm.

'I still want to paint you, properly' he breathed out.

Sherlock laughed. 'That can be arranged' he replied. Kissing John softly on the lips.


End file.
